


All the Wars Inside

by vanishingvixen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Biological Warfare, Biological Weapons, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Introspection, Post-Movie(s), Sick!Bucky, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishingvixen/pseuds/vanishingvixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has been hit with bio weapons more than once. It sucks every time, but the first time was the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Wars Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Hey thanks for stopping in! I actually starting writing this before the movie came out, but then I got distracted with LIFE, and things like graduating, so I just finished it. Hope you love it! I think we all need a little feverish Bucky in our lives, don't you? ;)
> 
> (OK, also Bucky being Russian property in the comics just lends really nicely to Russian bio weapons and sorry not sorry but why is there not more of this?)
> 
> Side note: I'm sorry, I'm crazy. I picked two kind of obscure diseases, but I chose them both because they can and have been altered for biological warfare. Tularemia specifically was manipulated by Russia during the Cold War and you can read all about it (and some other cool stuff) in Ken Alibeck's book Biohazard. It's a great read, and I highly recommend it.

_The first time, he was on a mission._

_He had just about taken down the target when he was doused. The target, a former member of the Soviet Union's biological weapons program, had hooked up the vats he had been growing bacteria in to the fire alarm system - and then pulled the alarm, so that the bacterial culture came raining from the ceiling, dousing him and the target from head to toe._

_He just blinked it out of his eyes, and took the target out with single shot. The fire alarm and sprinklers were still going off as the target fell from the grating above the lab floor into one of his own vats. If the gun wound or drowning didn't kill him, his own cultures would._

_It was still raining bacteria soup, and he wasn't sure how to stop it. The whole place was already a biohazard, but someone else would have to clean it up. That wasn't part of his job. His job was done, and all there was left for him to do was to get back to the safe house before someone noticed him._

_He couldn't walk through the city covered in the soup, though. He had to find a decontamination shower before he left the grounds._

_The lab - the whole lab - was in a pretty big facility, and the target had just been operating out of one building. The fire alarms in the other buildings were still normal. All he had to do was break into one of those, and there was sure to be a decontamination shower._

_He didn't have to, though. The entrance to the building (that he hadn't bothered to enter through) was a decontamination chamber, designed so that everyone going through the building the traditional way (as opposed to an air vent) would have to decontaminate every time they walked in, or out of the building. All he had to do was walk in, and pressure pads on the floor sensed his presence and sealed the room, before covering him in a thick white foam that smothered everything on him. The foam was then rinsed off by the hottest water he had ever felt_

_He brushed his hair - getting too long, it needed to be cut - out of his eyes, and walked back out. He was going to have to jog if he wanted to get to the safe house before the sun came up._

_A brisk breeze whipped around him, stirring up the last remaining leaves, and freezing his still-damp hair to his shoulders. It was late fall, and freezing, so the journey to the safe house was hell. He was still wet from the decontamination shower he took before leaving the lab grounds and the wind howled around him, chapping his face. He stumbled, rushing to make it in before too many people saw him. Soaking wet and dressed in black, he was far too conspicuous._

_He barely made it to the safe house. The bacteria, whatever it was, had a short incubation period, and the infection started to take hold while he was still half an hour out._

_The street seemed both too wide, and too narrow, and the streetlights, just about to shut off for the day, pulsed oddly. He had to grab onto one of them to catch his breath. He stood there for a moment, just breathing. The world tilted around him._

_When he finally made it, he had to scrabble at the lock to fit the key in. He tripped over the door jamb, and the walls swayed around him. His head pulsed._

_He made it to the bathroom, tugging off his clothes on the way. His boots were by far the hardest. He sat down on the toilet to tug them off, leaning his face against the cool of the tiled walls. Whatever he had been doused in, it was virulent. There was no use worrying, though. The pick up team would be there soon._

_The shower water wasn't very hot, and the pressure wasn't very good, but it eased his muscles, and rinses away the chemical tang of the decontamination shower. He leaned against the wall and let the water sluice over him._

_That's how his pickup team found him._

_"Get him out of there, it's freezing."_

_"What happened, was he hit?"_

_"No visible wounds."_

_The world swam around him, and he pushed himself up._

_"You're awake, good. Come on, let's get out of the bathroom." He took the hand proffered, but even then he could barely manage to get himself up. He was freezing, every part of him shaking._

_"How long have you been in that shower?"_

_He shrugged._

_"Alright, let's look you over. What happened?"_

_"Target showered me in biological material."_

_"An infectious agent?"_

_"Yes." The field medic frowned. "Have you been decontaminated?"_

_"Before I left the lab."_

_"Good. We need to keep this limited to you. Do you know what it was?"_

_"No." He shivered. The other agent handed him a towel._

_The truck ride back to central was bumpy as hell. They stretched him out in the back of the truck, his head with his cradled in the medic's lap to keep it from bouncing, but it didn't do much good. There was only so much one could do, while riding in the back of a delivery truck. They were perfect for driving around unnoticed, but not so much for transporting sick or injured agents._

_He drifted in an uneasy state, half awake, half not, and his stomach rolled._

_He passed out again._

\----------------

The second time is different. This time, he's not alone. He's been partnered with Agent Thirteen, and their target is a terrorist. 

Agent Thirteen still has her mask on, so she doesn't inhale any of the mist - powder - whatever it is. James is not so lucky. His had been torn off before they even entered the room, and whatever it is is getting in his eyes, nose, throat. He blinks to clear it, but there's too much of it. 

Sharon grabs his arm. "James, we have to get out of here."

He shakes his head. "The objective has not been accomplished. We can't leave until it's done."

"We don't know what this shit is, and you're breathing it in. We need to go."

Instead of reporting to a safe house, they're picked up by a helicopter that's been waiting for their signal, and taken to the helicarrier.

They both go through decontamination, and samples are taken from their hair and clothing. It's a fine white powder - it could be anything. Until they find out what it is, the two of them are stuck in isolation - separately, because James breathed it in and Sharon didn't.

It's boring in isolation. The hospital room is too cold, and barren. In this way, it is exactly like all the labs and rooms in Russia. 

He can see Sharon through the glass, but he can't hear her, can't touch her. Technicians come and go, taking blood and monitoring his vitals, but no one brings him anything to do. He's not used to spending this long unoccupied. He's either asleep, or he's on a mission. Or preparing to go on a mission. 

He falls asleep out of sheer boredom.

\----------------

_When he woke up, he was dry. Someone had dressed him in a thin pair of hospital pants, and it wasn't near enough - he was freezing. He grabbed at the thin sheet draped across his lap, but couldn't quite get his fingers to work._

, _"He'll raise his temperature if he keeps shivering like that," someone said. He felt another, thicker blanket being dropped onto him. "He's valuable, we can't risk him damaging himself."_

_He was still cold, but he fell back asleep._

_They wiped him down with cool cloths. At one point, he thought he heard someone say that they should cut their losses and just let him die._

_Someone else snorted. "We should have cut our losses when we were considering hiring you. Winter Soldier is worth it."_

_A third person suggested that they put him back in stasis, but they were immediately shot down. "We need him to be ready the next time we need him. His body won't just take care of itself while he's on ice - that's why we put him on ice. If we want a worthwhile soldier, we're going to have to wait until he recovers - and then maybe wait a bit more, for him to get his strength up."_

_Something to look forward to, then._

_(It was a long time before they put in back in cryo. He was too sick, for a while, still recovering and no good frozen. Then he had back to back missions. He gets reprogrammed three times before they refreeze him. He forgot he was ever sick at all. He forgot a lot of things, in those days.)_

_There were days of fever before that though. He shook and sweated, tensed and melted. He didn't want to eat. The smell of food alone made him nauseous, but mostly he just wasn't hungry. He only accepted water when they forced it on him. Mostly, he slept, fading in and out of awareness, waking only when prompted._

_Someone was touching him, cold fingers pressing into his jawbone. "Open."_

_He opened his mouth, and they slipped something cold inside under his tongue. A minute later, they pulled it out._

_"It's up again. Forty point three degrees. We need to ice him."_

_He could feel hands on him, pulling away the blankets, the thin pants. Suddenly, he was freezing, but he didn't have the energy to do anything. He laid still as the doctors pressed ice packs into his groin, armpits and neck. They kept him there for what seemed like an eternity._

_"Thirty-nine point five. He should be alright, now. Leave the pack on his neck, but the rest can go."_

_As soon as they re-cover him in the sheet, he's out again._

\----------------

When he wakes up, his mouth is dry and his head is throbbing. He pushes himself up into a sitting position - it's harder than it should be. His joints ache, and his metal arm isn't fitting correctly. It pulls at his shoulder, so he cradles it in his lap. 

He doesn't want to move, but he has to piss like a racehorse. He all but collapses onto the bed when he's done. Moving hurts, and his head is throbbing now, too.

A nurse comes in, ready to prod him some more. "Are you alright, Agent Barnes?" the nurse asks. A gloved hand comes to rest on his forehead, and she strokes his hair back, away from his face. The movement is startlingly gentle, and he can't help it, he shudders. 

"I'm fine."

Her eyes crinkle up under her mask. It's all he can see of her - two brown eyes, bright. A few wisps of brown hair. "I'm sure. You're a little warm, though. Let me take your temperature?"

She pulls a thermometer out of her pocket, and places it under his tongue without ever taking her hand away from his forehead. It's an impressive feat, since it's one of those ridiculously accurate, two-handed thermometers hospitals use.

"100.7. Sorry, pal, but it's likely to only get worse from here."

Pal. It's been a long time since anyone called him that. Not even Steve calls him that, and Steve is still holding onto to the idea that James is still his childhood friend.

The nurse pulls her hand away from James' forehead, reaching for the clip board she had set on the table by his bed. 

"I need you to be honest with me," she says. "How do you really feel?"

He shrugs, or tries to. His shoulder twinges, and he winces. "Awful."

"You sound like my seven year old. That's not very helpful," the nurse laughs. She's wearing a name badge, but he's having trouble focusing his eyes and can't read it. 

"I need a bit more detail than that," the nurse says.

"Tired. Sore. My head hurts."

The nurse writes everything down on her clipboard, and then she looks up at him. "Sore? Can you give me a little more detail, there?"

"My shoulders ache. Hurts to move."

"Let me take a look at them, please." She helps him to sit up and pulls open the stupid gown that they've made him wear, so that she can see his shoulders. The joint around on his left, where the skin meets the metal is completely inflamed, the skin stretching and pulling at the metal and the metal refusing to yield.

"Ouch," the nurse says, her eyes crinkling in sympathy. "It looks like your joints are swollen, but I'll get a doctor to come in and look at it."

The doctor, who arrives ten minutes later, agrees with the nurse. "Your joints are definitely swollen. We'll give you something for that in a little bit, but because we're not sure what this is yet, we can't give you anything stronger than ibuprofen, because we don't want it to interfere with anything we have to give you later."

They hook him up to an I.V. anyway, pumping broad-spectrum antibiotics into him. There's always someone in the room with him now, monitoring him, checking his temperature, looking at something or another.

Doctors, nurses, more techs come in, poke him, prod him. They feel his glands ("Swollen"), listen to his heart ("erratic"), take his temperature time and time again. Apparently, it keeps fluctuating, going up - then suddenly dropping. It's different every hour, but it never goes below 100.7, much to the doctor's chagrin.

Just as thing begin to calm down, and James begins to fall asleep, they pick up again. They've figured out what the powder was, and since it's non-infectious, he's being moved. Sharon, who is symptom-free, is being let go. She's still wanted for observation, but she won't leave until James does, anyway. They can keep an eye on her from his bedside. 

Her hand is cool against is face, and he leans into it, lets her tug her fingers through his hair. Finally, he falls back asleep. 

\----------------

_The next time he woke up, he managed to open up his eyes. Both of his arms were strapped down, and there was a needle coming out of his right arm, wrapped carefully in gauze._

_"I'm glad you're awake," the youngest doctor told him. "It means you're getting better."_

_He tracked her with his eyes as she worked on the counter, her back to him._

_"You've been very sick, you know. Tularemia is nasty all by itself, and the version you were exposed to was engineered to be especially virulent. You're rather lucky we knew what to do." She turned to face him, putting down whatever she had been working on._

_"There's an assignment for you. Now that you're awake, there's someone you need to find." She picked the thermometer that had taken up residence by the cot they had him strapped to and placed it in his mouth._

_"You're a very expensive weapon, do you know that? If you don't succeed on this next mission, I'm not sure you'll be kept around. There's been a rumor that the tularemia might have caused permanent damage. I don't think it did, because we did a very good job on you - give me that."_

_She plucked the thermometer out of his mouth. "Thirty-eight. Much better."_

_She undid the straps pinning him to the bed, before turning around and grabbing a tray from the table behind her. "Eat this, then go back to sleep. We want to send you out tomorrow morning."_

_They sent him out the next morning to find an American ambassador, still running a low fever. He has hardly any energy, is exhausted and sore, but this is what he does. He does his job._

\---------------- 

He drifts in and out of fever, he hurts everywhere. It's not the first time biological weapons have been used on him, but it's still awful. Having Sharon there with him makes a world of difference. It's been a long time since's he's had someone to sit beside him and care. He's become used to scientists who's only concern is keeping him in fighting condition. 

Steve visits partway into the week. He comes in kicking and screaming, wants to know why no one told him James was in the hospital, but as soon as they let him in, he's silent. 

"You can talk to me," Bucky says, and Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

They haven't been back together long - haven't been together much at all, really. It hasn't been much more than a year since James' had been...freed, for lack of a better word, from the Winter Soldier's programming and the now scattered Hydra. Much of that year had been spent combing through his fractured psyche, looking for anything familiar - human.

There wasn't much left, but Steve - and Sharon - had found it. Had worked with the psychiatrist assigned to his case and pulled it out. 

After that first year, that had been so hard on both of them, Steve had - wandered. James wasn't Bucky, anymore, and Steve wasn't the same, either. They were still friends, but the Steve that sat besides him in the hospital room was so different from the Steve that he had grown up with, it was hard to mesh the two of them in his mind. 

They're both trying, though, making spaces in their heads for the new people that they've become. Strangely enough, Steve and Sharon's break-up - and her burgeoning relationship with James - had brought them closer together.

Sharon helps them now, Steve squirming in a seat, unsure what to say, and James in a hospital bed.

He's in medical long enough for him to get bored - a new experience. He keeps waiting for them to kick him out, send him on a new mission - and yet they don't. No one comes in to send him on a new mission - it's confusing. He should be doing something, being useful. Instead he's just lying here, doing nothing. 

He get plenty of visitors, and the nurses are talkative, but it's still boring, and once he's well enough to be awake for most of the day, he starts squirming.

"I'm surprised," Sharon says to him, as she drives him back to the apartment he shares with Steve on paper, and her in reality. "I though you of all people would check out AMA."

Bucky shrugs. Honestly, the idea hadn't even occurred to him. It was never something he was allowed before, he had to sit until he was given a mission. Being aware and awake between missions is a novelty that he's still not quite used to, he's not going to push it. 

Sharon reaches over, and tugs her hand through Bucky's hair, shorter now than it ever was when he was working for Hydra. 

"You need a shower."

He shrugs again. He knows he needs a shower, he didn't get to bathe much while he was in the hospital - the I.V.s and monitors made it too much of a hassle - and he's covered in sweat and hospital smell.  
Sharon grins at him wickedly. "I'll get in with you."

And that, really, is his favorite part of the new world.


End file.
